


A Man of Great Character and Better Humor

by sans_patronymic



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Retirement, Sussex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 09:28:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6848893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sans_patronymic/pseuds/sans_patronymic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a bit of bad news threatens to crush Watson's spirit, Holmes knows just the solution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Man of Great Character and Better Humor

“Come in!”

Watson pushed open the door and ventured into the muggy jungle that replaced their bathroom nearly once a day since the installation of the water heater last autumn. Holmes was stretched out in the tub, up to his neck in steaming, soapy water, eyes closed and accompanied with a blissful smile. He did not seem to notice Watson’s noisome rearranging of the bathroom cabinet.

“Have you seen the nail scissors?”

“On the windowsill, next to my shaving kit.”

So they were. Watson settled against the edge of the wash basin and turned his attentions to the torn thumb nail that had been snagging his clothes all morning.“You might try putting things where _I_ can find them as well.”

Holmes sat up in the tub, long arms curling over its porcelain edges.“Then what would we have to talk about all day?”

“Yesterday it was Latinate cognomens,” Watson recalled somewhat drearily.

“I still insist it’s ridiculous to call Juvenile ‘Juvenile’, while nearly everyone else of note from the same period if referred to by their—“

“Yes, yes, I remember.” If he was being honest, he hadn’t listened in the first place. Regardless, he was not eager to repeat that particular lecture. Watson put the nail scissors away— _away_ , away, not just on the windowsill—and looked up to find Holmes pressing the surface of his bathwater with flat palms. “What on Earth are you doing?”

“You know, I really do suspect it’s possible.” Holmes poised himself over his hands, pushing with splayed fingers against the water and watched it slosh forward in a great sheet.

Watson knew he would regret asking, yet he heard himself inquire: “What’s possible?”

“Da Vinci wasn’t so far off with his designs. Practically every insect species in the Gerridae family manages. A few varieties of _Basiliscus_ do as well, though a little less gracefully.” To illustrate his point, Holmes strode two fingers along the top of his bath, ending their jaunt with a decisive splash.

Watson guffawed and felt this really must be the height of it. Sherlock Holmes wanted to walk on water. “You can’t be serious.”

“And why not? It’s just a question of proper weight distribution to maintain surface tension. Though it might require some very odd proportions.”His limbs splayed out of the tub at odd angles in demonstration, sprinkling water all over the tiled floor.

“You’ve been in there too long; the steam is giving you delusions of grandeur.” 

“Have not, look for yourself.” Holmes presented his hands for inspection, his fingertips soggy but unwrinkled.

A harrumph of the not-so-easily-fooled. “Let’s see the toes, too.”

“Why?” A sloshy retreat.

“Because.” Watson tried to assume his most Holmesian expression: a quirked eyebrow, hooded eyes, steepled fingers, lips pressed firmly together. “I suspect those hands haven’t spent more than five minutes in that water before I arrived. You brought the newspaper in here with you; you never get your hands wet until you’re done with the paper. You loathe soggy newsprint and it takes you half an hour to get through the weekend edition. Ergo, you’ve been in the tub nearly forty minutes.”

“Excellent, my darling, _excellent_.”

“It’s really quite obvious, once you know where to look.” At the clock, for instance. Watson knew the logic of his deduction was faulty at best. The smirk on Holmes's face confirmed the same, though he made no comment. It was a boon of old age to be humored from time to time. Watson reached for a towel. “Now come on, out with you.”

The drain was pulled. Holmes rose with the now-customary grunt of an aging man and took the towel. Watson tried not to notice as he dripped water everywhere _but_ the bathmat.

“I seem made to annoy you this morning,” mentioned Holmes, catching the tightening of the lips and the flare of the nostril on the other man’s face. He ruffled his hair with the towel briskly, leaving it standing every which way. He blotted at the rest of himself before finally wrapping the towel about his waist.

“Oh, it isn’t you.” Watson reflexively combed his fingers through Holmes's hair, working it into a rough semblance of order. His tone had softened, not so much irritated now as, Holmes suspected, defeated.

“Your letter from London, I take it.”

“Mmh.” Watson seemed suddenly very focused on brushing the last of the water droplets from Holmes's collar bone.

Holmes rested his hands on Watson’s hips, fingers hooking into the waistband of his linen trousers as if to keep him from darting away. He moved his head to catch Watson’s eyes with his own. Yes, defeated, surely.

“John.”

Watson ran his hands up Holmes's arms, admiring the softness and warmth a bath always lent to his skin. “Bad news from my editor. They didn’t care for my latest story.”

So that was it. The editor. Holmes leaned to press their foreheads together, their faces close, the arms on Watson’s hips sliding into an embrace. He nuzzled his nose against the curve of Watson’s cheekbone so sweetly that when he muttered, ‘tough luck, old man,’ it was positively comforting.Watson welcomed the tender consolation. He put his arms around Holmes and tightened their embrace, heedless of how Holmes's still-wet, slender frame made damp patches on his clothes.

He had intended writing to be the chief pursuit of his retirement. In London, needs always arose to draw him away from his desk just as the ideas had begun to coalesce: patients, cases, the tedious minutiae of city life. Retirement was meant to fix all this with its single, golden gift of time. Time to write; finally, all the time in the world. Every tale he could dream up, every case Holmes would let him publish. Before they’d left for Sussex, his editor shared his enthusiasm for the forthcoming bounty of his solace. But this latest story ended up four months overdue and a disappointment. Thoughts came haltingly in bits and pieces, and no matter which way he arranged them, they felt off. He labored to put word after word. His sentences hadn't sung as they used to—there were no sonorous turns of phrase, no passages that thrilled him when he read them over. It had been an agonizingly dull story to pen, and, his editor confirmed, an agonizingly dull story to read.

With his head resting on Holmes’s shoulder, Watson let the waves of disappointment, frustration, and defeat surge over him. They stayed in their embrace while the last of the bathwater gurgled down the drain, while Holmes’s hair began to dry, while the humid jungle dissolved into their bathroom once more. Holmes ran a hand across Watson’s back, until slowly, there was a great sigh and a squaring of shoulders.

“Nothing for it but to try again,” Holmes pronounced finally, and proceeded to place what he hoped were encouraging kisses down one side of Watson’s face, crossing under the mustache at the lips, then back up the other side.

“What if I can’t.” Watson squinted just in time to prevent a misaimed kiss from landing on his eye. Perhaps he’d told all his best stories already. “I’m not a soldier any more, not really a doctor either. If I’m not a writer, what am I?”

“Of course you can. There are few people in this world in whose talents I place my confidence and you are chief among them.” The kisses moved down Watson’s neck while diligent fingers were unbuttoning his shirt. Holmes paused his assault to admire the alluring, lightly rumpled aesthetic he had cultivated on Watson’s person. He cupped his face in his hands, eyes bright and serious.

“And you are a great many things beyond your occupation,” Holmes continued, “You are a man of great character and better humor. You are a surprisingly apt singer. You like to eat carrots right out of the ground. You are absurdly kind to post masters, children, and people with dogs. You love the spring time, even if pollen makes you ill. You are a Sunday morning French omelette master chef. You like to read horrible penny dreadfuls aloud to your companion, even if he is a _savage_ critic and always spoils the ending for you. You own five suits and only ever wear three. You always remember shopkeepers’ names and they delight to see you walk through their doors. You tell awful jokes well and excellent jokes terribly. You are a loyal friend, a most devoted lover, and you are my most favorite person I have ever met.”

The smile that rose on Watson’s face was the perfect compliment to Holmes’s handiwork—he looked positively irresistible. He dipped his head to rest on Holmes’s shoulder, eyes hot and wet from Holmes’s generous analysis. An odd profession of love, perhaps, but one that could have come from no one else.

“Thank you,” Watson said at last, lifting his head, smile still there, if a bit bleary-eyed. He let Holmes’s thumb push away a lingering tear. “I am sorry for being cross earlier.”

“I am a difficult man to live with and you are allowed to be irritated with me on occasion.”

“You aren’t _so_ difficult, really. A bit. Mostly amusing.”

“Then I have you fooled.” Cool air had seeped into the bathroom seemingly unnoticed, pricking Holmes’s bare torso into gooseflesh. He gave a dramatic shiver. “In which case, would you help this poor, frozen, old man into some clothes?”

“I’ll accompany you, but I won’t dress you.” The smile had turned radiant now. Holmes added ‘beautiful in disarray and happiness’ to Watson’s ever-growing list of positives.

“Perhaps after I’ve dressed, I shall attempt to recall your muse with some musical inspiration.”

“I second that motion.” Even if Holmes’s violin failed to inspire any writing, it was often very excellent for inspiring a good nap, and today, Watson decided as they rounded the corner into the bedroom, was the perfect day for a late-morning doze. The type highlighted by sunshine and birdsong, and that ended with Holmes clattering dishes when he was hungry and it was time for luncheon. Watson perched on the edge of their bed and watched Holmes dig through the armoire like an eager mole in a garden.

“What would you say to a little Bononcini?” Holmes asked, tugging on his clothing in his particular, haphazard manner.

“Was that the fellow who wrote all those quintets?”

“No, no, that’s Boccherini. _Bononcini_.”

“Right,” Watson agreed, though he wasn’t sure he could hear a distinction. “The double bass composer?”

Holmes laughed as he buttoned up his shirt. “No, that’s _Bottesini_.”

“I can’t say I know the difference.”

“There are _scores_ of differences—not the least of which is a good hundred years. Would you like me to enumerate them for you?”

“Have I any choice?”

“Well—“ Holmes gave a passing glance in the mirror. After a swift brushing of the hair and some minor adjustments throughout, a nod declared himself suitably dressed for the day’s important tasks of Cheering Up John, then Checking on the Bees, followed by Not Much of Anything. “I can promise it will be slightly more interesting than my thoughts on Roman naming systems.”

“And if it isn’t?” Another boon of old age was getting to be cheeky with abandon.

“Then I shall spare you my disquisitions for one week.”

“You couldn’t if you tried,” Watson declared, rising from the edge of the bed. As Holmes attempted to stride past him, Watson caught him around the waist, pulling him into an uncoordinated embrace, paired with an equally, lovingly uncoordinated kiss.

Holmes strained against the hold, affectionately feigning disinterest. “Pardon me, sir, but my violin is downstairs. This lecture includes auditory illustrations.”

“Have I told you lately that I love you?”

“Please hold all questions until the end of the lecture.”

Watson gave him a pinch in the ribs that was just on the edge between playful and painful. “I love you, you wicked, old thing.”

“And I, you, my darling. Very much.” Holmes seemed to look him over, no doubt cataloguing his favorite creases in Watson’s face, or appreciating the way the sunlight through the window made his hair glow gold and silver. The kiss he pressed on to Watson’s lips said whatever he’d been observing, he liked very much, indeed.

“Now, come along,” he continued, taking Watson’s hand in his own and leading him down the stairs. “I must help you keep your ‘Bo-ini’s straight. And if by the end of it, you still can’t tell Bononcini from Bottesini, I shall buy you a pint at the Red Lion this evening.”

“Now that,” Watson agreed, “is a bet I’m willing to make.”


End file.
